


Falling Like the Stars

by coffeeandcas



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst, Blindfolds, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunk Sex, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Kissing, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Operas, Oral Sex, Protective Hannibal Lecter, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28010253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: After a slightly strange night at the opera and a glass of champagne too many, Hannibal invites Will to stay the night at his home in Baltimore and things get a little out of hand.From there, their relationship begins to alter in ways neither of them expected.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 121





	Falling Like the Stars

Everyone has thought about killing someone, one way or another. 

Sometimes it’s reactionary, an irritation. A ‘god, I’ll kill him if I get my hands on him’ or an ‘I could have killed you’ following a situation bearing an intense emotional load. A throwaway thought with no intent behind it, forgotten in moments. 

Sometimes it’s more prominent than that. Something genuine, taking shape, with the ability to bloom into a fantasy or an obsession that, when created by the wrong person, can become deadly.

Sometimes it’s somewhere between the two.

Will Graham doesn’t tend to think about it often at all, which is a good thing in many ways. 

When he does, it’s usually following a particularly morbid case thrust upon him by Jack, or after waking drenched in sweat and entangled in his sheets following an all-too-vivid nightmare. It’s a reflection, usually, of something he’s encountered in his daily - or nightly - activities, and not a train of thought he arrives at organically. Sometimes a stab of anger will bring about the urge, usually directed at a killer long since deceased or thrown behind bars following a successful arrest and trial, but that sort of anger is impotent, a flash in the pan, a reactive emotion borne of frustration at not being able to do more, or deep sympathy for the victims he, Jack, and the rest of them could not save. It doesn’t last, doesn’t linger in his peripherals and raise its head in warning from time to time. It doesn’t watch, wait, linger, nudge at him to think more, plan more,  _ do _ more. It comes, sparks like a Catherine wheel, then dies in ashes lost on the wind. 

His last nightmare, which had repeated on him night after night for over a week, evoked the kind of murderous feelings he had to work hard to chase away in the morning light. Silvestri’s arrest had been the trigger, but his solidified opinion that the Chesapeake Ripper is only one person, a singular murderous entity who has remained dormant for almost two years, has teetered on the edge of obsession ever since and colours his dreams with something dark and ominous that he can’t quite pinpoint. He’d felt murderous himself, as though he would kill the Ripper with his bare hands if he even caught sight of him, would make him suffer for all the pain he’s inflicted upon the world, upon his victims. And the pain he is yet to inflict, if he, Jack, and Hannibal fail to find him in time before he kills again... 

But these thoughts are abstract and half-formed themselves, and usually he manages to keep such musings at bay and give them no regular thought at all. Killing someone isn’t on his radar, is something he actively avoids thinking about in everyday life as he’s been so well-trained to only do it should the situation command nothing but. 

Tonight, however, he’s thought about it long and hard. And has managed to settle on two very particular targets, and has considered carefully who should be dispatched first. 

Should it be Hannibal, in his ridiculously tight-fitting tuxedo pants and that jacket that hugs his trim waist and looks like it cost more than Will’s house and car combined?

Or should it be Franklyn, harmless enough in his sickening impression of a besotted puppy but so irritating that Will could just start screaming right here in the middle of the room just to make him  _ stop fucking talking? _

Or neither - maybe himself instead. The third target, the wild card. He could pitch himself over the balcony and land with a painful and jarring crash on the seats below, narrowly missing an affable couple in their late fifties dressed in their finest and splattering blood all over a young man and his wan-looking mistress who would probably faint right there on the spot? He’s thought about it, has peered over the edge with interest, wondering if the fall would be enough to kill him or just put him in indeterminable amounts of pain. He’d wondered this while Franklyn was speaking, spouting some drivel about a book he had read where the main character was just so  _ charismatic _ and  _ intricate _ and had so many  _ levels _ and had Dr. Lecter read it because oh, if not, he could bring it to his next appointment and loan it to him and oh, when  _ was  _ his next appointment again because he was such a  _ scatterbrain _ and never remembered anything, and… Will had tuned out at the earliest possible convenience and had made no attempt to hide his boredom, stopping just short of rolling his eyes. 

Hannibal, on the other hand, looks so patiently attentive that Will has to peer very hard at him to work out whether his interest is genuine or just politeness taken to the furthest degree. A familiar face at the opera, he would never be seen to be anything less than charming and well-mannered, but Will is sure that Franklyn is testing his patience to the very last degree. He tunes out again, turning away and sipping his drink and surveying the milling crowd around him. He and Hannibal have a box to themselves with the best view in the house (naturally), but have ventured out during the intermission to mingle with the other patrons. A choice that Will is now sure they’re both regretting. Hannibal had seemed unsurprised to see Franklyn, more resigned than anything else, which suggests that the man has a habit of turning up wherever Hannibal happens to be. Will notes that behaviour and tucks it away in the back of his mind in case he needs it later. Obsession, when left untamed and unrestrained, can grow into something ugly and menacing. He’s sure Hannibal can take care of himself, but it doesn’t hurt to keep an eye out. 

The room is warm, but not unpleasantly so. Even still, the sensory overload is giving Will a headache. Colognes and perfumes in florals and spices and citrus swirl around him, and his gaze darts from one couple to another, from one group of laughing women to another of smirking men. He doesn’t fit in here. Here, among the high society of Baltimore, sandwiched between a group of elderly women adorned with scarves and jewels with elegantly coiffed hair and an underdressed couple, him with a wedding ring and her without, suggesting either an illicit dalliance or a recent bereavement. Will, based on the loose body language of the man and the secretive smile of the much younger woman, chooses the former. 

He thinks longingly of the night air. Cool, crisp, a dusting of snow underfoot. City roads bleeding into the country as houses and supermarkets fall away leaving fields and rolling hills in their wake. A clear sky, stars sparkling and the wind biting at his lips and cheeks. His boots crunching on frostbitten gravel. His dogs, padding through the grass and jumping up at him with wet paws. His own porch with the rocking chair and a glass of Scotch. Hannibal’s car, the man himself stepping out with shined shoes and a coat over his arm, a warm smile at his lips...

“Will?” 

It’s Hannibal, drawing him back into the damn conversation, and Will seethes silently about it, hoping Hannibal can pick up on his general aura of irritation. But the older man seems unaffected and smiles demurely at Will, turning his upper body towards him so that Will has no choice but to step back into the small circle or seem so rude that he really should throw himself off the balcony in penance. It’s tempting, but he rejoins the group instead. An untimely fall to his death will have to wait.

“Yes?”

“Have you read it?”

“Read what?” 

He knows he’s being rude, but he can’t for the life of him remember the book Franklyn had mentioned - because he hadn’t been listening. He probably could have got away with a simple lie, a yes or a no, but he’s too transparent for that. Hannibal, at the very least, would see straight through him. 

“Dostoevsky.  _ Crime and Punishment. _ Have you read it?”

“Yes, once. I tend to stay away from pretentious fiction as a rule,” He feels Franklyn glare daggers at him for a split second. “But I got so bored with people quoting it out of context that I had to read it for myself just so I could correct them.”

“A satisfying hobby.” Hannibal smiles that charming smile of his, catches Will’s eye and for a moment they share a secret smirk at poor Franklyn’s expense. Then he turns back to Franklyn and Tobias, sipping from his glass as he does so. “I, however, am not so well-read as our Special Agent. Perhaps Will would be so kind as to lend me his copy one day.”

“I have mine, it’s really no trouble,” Franklyn begins eagerly but Hannibal shakes his head solemnly.

“No, Franklyn, that’s a kind offer but I must decline it. A book you’ve found so special and that has awoken such strong feelings in you should be kept close by. I would hate for anything to happen to it. And as it is, I find myself rather weighed down with work at the moment. Regretfully, I would struggle to find the tie for it.”

_ Yet a visit to the opera seems to have side-stepped that heavy workload,  _ muses Will with a half-smile to himself, one he hides quickly behind his glass. Hannibal’s excuse sounds genuine and contrite, and Franklyn laps it up agreeably, shifting rapidly to another topic in an attempt to further ensnare Hannibal in conversation. His chubby hand extends to land on Hannibal’s, on the elegant hand holding the champagne flute, thumb moving in a circle, a gesture far too intrusive and affectionate, and Hannibal’s spine stiffens. 

And Will has had enough. He didn’t come here tonight to be sidelined while Hannibal’s most lovestruck patient monopolises his attention all night and bores Will rigid in the process. He finishes his drink in one swallow, deposits it deftly on the tray of a passing waiter, and moves a little closer to Hannibal, feeling emboldened by the two glasses of champagne and by how irrationally angry he is at Franklyn’s mere existence. He feels Hannibal start a little as he slips a hand through his arm but the older man, never one to be ruffled by something as mundane as a surprise, takes it in stride and presses his elbow closer to his side, effectively trapping Will’s hand on his forearm. 

Franklyn’s gaze drops to Will’s hand, as does Tobias’. 

“You’re together.” It’s said flatly and without judgement, a factual statement, and Tobias’ low voice seems to give his statement so much weight that Will wonders for a second whether they actually  _ are _ , before shaking himself and realising he should respond.

“Well, we sort of…”

“Yes.” 

Hannibal cuts in smoothly, his other hand coming up to rest lightly on Will’s wrist, the stem of his champagne flute held neatly between thumb and forefinger. In that moment, Will baulks a little as the enormity of what he’s done sinks in. He hadn’t planned for it to be addressed, more than Franklyn would see that there may be something between them and would step back. But Tobias, never one to miss a trick nor an opportunity to make another person uncomfortable, has latched onto the gesture and seems intent on probing for more.

“Is that not somewhat unprofessional? Is Mr Graham not a patient of yours?”

“I don’t discuss my patients, Tobias, you know that. And as a result, I will not be discussing the nature of my relationship with Mr Graham any further tonight. We must all enjoy the splendour of tonight and not trouble ourselves with things that do not concern us.” Hannibal, polite yet with something burning behind his smile, raises his glass to Tobias. “Ah. I believe we should take our seats. Good evening to you both.”

The lights have begun to dim and people disperse, finding their seats as conversations dull to whispers then fade away. Will is frozen, not knowing whether or not he should pull his arm away as Hannibal seems in no hurry to relinquish it. Tobias scrutinises them carefully before nodding once and turning away whereas Franklyn, incensed, gives Will a look that could freeze lava before flooding after Tobias. In their wake, Franklyn’s whine can be heard even over the shushing crowd. He’s sure he hears Hannibal hiss something under his breath, but when he looks up at the older man his face is the picture of serenity and expectation as he glances towards the stage.

Will feels his arm being tugged lightly: Hannibal is turning them back to their box, still keeping Will’s hand firmly on his own arm. With his free hand, he pushes back the curtain and allows Will to stumble in first, a little shaken but also with a strange warm feeling ghosting around his cheeks and neck. His hand, when finally released, tingles from wrist to fingertips in a way that has nothing to do with pins and needles. He rubs it surreptitiously on his pants leg, biting his lower lip as he realises Hannibal hasn’t missed the action. He has never been more grateful to be in a private box under very low lighting in his life; he’s sure the glow of his cheeks would be obvious to everyone in the room otherwise. 

“Your quick thinking has never been more welcome, Will.” Hannibal turns and suddenly they seem very close under the dimming lights. “I am grateful.”

There isn’t time to respond as a hush is falling over the crowd and Hannibal has turned back to look at the stage, immediately intent on what he sees before him, and Will doesn’t know what he would say in reply anyway. The rest of the act goes by in a blur of embarrassment and confusion, with him tugging at his too-tight collar and wondering if Hannibal’s thigh is pressing against his own just a little more than it did during Act One. 

*

“May I drive you home?” Hannibal asks as they step out into the cold, Will pulling his coat a little tighter around him and wishing he had the foresight to bring a scarf. It’s bitterly cold now, snow falling like stardust from a heavy sky, and the streets are slushy and slippery beneath his shoes. 

“No, really, I’ll…” He flounders a moment, watching the mass exodus of people from the opera house into cabs and private cars, and suddenly worries he may not be able to hail one before they’re all taken. “I’m sure I can get a taxi.”

“It’s a long journey, Will. It will cost a lot of money.” 

Hannibal is frowning, his voice slightly stiff yet concerned, and Will shrugs in response. His breath ghosts in front of him in a cloud, and he rubs his hands together before tucking them back into his pockets. He knew it would be cold, and it may be the absence of Hannibal’s warm body at his side that’s making him feel so much chillier than he expected. He misses the presence of the other man so close to him, and it’s a little unsettling. After he had finished applauding, Hannibal had turned to him with shining eyes and a smile at his lips, had leaned in and done something that almost made Will pass out on the spot. He had placed a hand on Will’s elbow, drawn him in, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. When he had pulled back, his hand had remained but he had looked a little shocked at his own behaviour, a flash of surprise crossing his face before he had moved back completely, reigning in his smile and saying, ‘Thank you, Will, for accompanying me tonight.’ The walk outside had been a little awkward, especially as their hands kept brushing, pushed so tightly together in the crowd as they were, and neither of them did much to stop it. Now, Will misses the warmth of so many bodies.

“You’re shivering. Allow me, please.” Hannibal, in one seamless movement, unwinds his own scarf from around his neck and steps in close to Will, wrapping it again loosely and tying it so it falls in a straight, heavy line down the front of his coat. The stray end is then tucked in and Hannibal steps back to survey his handiwork while Will remains motionless, unsure of what just happened and whether he should have allowed it to or not. The cashmere is damp from the snow yet warm from Hannibal’s own body heat and the juxtaposition makes him shiver again, involuntarily. “I dislike the idea of a stranger taking you home.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” His own laugh sounds a little hollow. It would be so easy to say yes, please take me home, but after what has passed between them in the opera house he’s sure the journey would be unbearably awkward. “I can take care of myself. Special Agent, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Hannibal’s warm, familiar smile is back and Will wishes he could lean into it. It must be the champagne, he had one glass too many, but all he wants is to move closer to Hannibal and siphon his body heat, and have that strong arm wrapped around his shoulders. “But Will, please. Humour me, and do not make the journey alone. Allow me, it is no trouble at all. Or…”

He trails off and Will looks at him quizzically. Hannibal looks… not reluctant, not unsure, but a little thrown by whatever he’s considering and that means Will  _ has  _ to know. 

“Or?”

“I have a guest room.” A little of the former stiffness has returned to Hannibal’s voice, but he hasn’t stepped back which is a comfort of some sort. “My house is not far, a short journey. You could stay and return to Wolf Trap early in the morning to change for work. Only if you wish to, of course.”

Stay. At Hannibal’s. Will considers the option carefully, picturing his home and his dogs and his comfortable bed and the  _ cold.  _ It’ll be freezing when he eventually gets in, even with Winston piled on top of him in bed. The back windows have started to rattle in the wind which he really has to do something about but hasn’t found the time, and as a result a loud screech fills the house on particularly wild nights. Nights just like tonight, in fact. 

Then, in blazing contrast, there’s Hannibal’s home. Warm and inviting, roaring fires in the drawing-room, low lighting and more champagne. No doubt about it, the bed will be comfortable and the room cosy. He has no nightwear with him, but he can sleep in his boxers and will surely be comfortable enough. It would seem, to any observer, a no-brainer. And after all, Hannibal’s home will have the one thing that his most certainly won’t. 

Hannibal himself.

“My dogs.” 

It’s a weak protest and they both know it. He can be home in time to give them their breakfast, he knows Hannibal will see to that. And they’ve already had dinner, wolfed it down in frantic mouthfuls before he left for the evening. They’ll sleep in a pile together on the floor and won’t miss him; he’s away so often these days that they’re used to having the place to themselves. And Hannibal knows this all too well.

“My dear Will,” he starts as a warm hand takes his and squeezes. Hannibal has leather gloves on now, but the heat of his skin seeps through nonetheless. “I will have you home in time for breakfast. Theirs, of course, for you must eat with me. I would never send a guest out into the cold with an empty stomach.” His gaze has Will pinned, and they both know his answer without him having to vocalise it at all. “I shall fetch the car. Please wait here, I won’t be long. And take this.” 

In a flurry of movement that leaves absolutely no room for protest, Hannibal has taken off his heavy overcoat and draped it over Will’s shoulders, leaving himself in nothing but his tuxedo and gloves, snow instantly gathering in twinkling specks on his arms and chest. Before Will can protest, he turns and walks briskly down the steps and away down the street, leaving Will speechless in the coat and scarf of someone he’s starting to feel something much deeper than friendship for. He swallows, tugging the overcoat around him gratefully, and inhales Hannibal’s scent surreptitiously from the collar. Deep, rich, spice and oak and something else, something muskier and headier and Will holds his breath in his lungs for as long as he can stand before letting it out in a low hiss between his teeth. 

“What a surprise to see you alone, Special Agent Graham.” A cold voice makes him jerk and turn, and he’s face-to-face with Tobias, with a sulky-looking Franklyn at his elbow. “Has he abandoned you so soon?”

“ _ Hannibal _ has gone to get the car,” Will says through gritted teeth, hyperaware than Tobias is looking at his coat and scarf with something close to disdain. “He won’t be long.” 

It sounds, even to his own ears, a little strained. A little too firm. He curses this man for unsettling him, but something about Tobias makes his skin crawl. Not in the same way as Franklyn, simpering and creepy as he is. But Tobias has a darker energy, something more calculated. And Will doesn’t like it.

“I hope not. It’s cold out here, Special Agent. And getting colder.” Tobias nods, a parody of politeness. “Goodnight.”

And with Franklyn at his heel, throwing Will one last baleful glare, Tobias disappears into the snowy night and leaves Will standing alone on the steps of the opera house. When Hannibal returns, wrapped in a long grey coat and extending his arm for Will to take, it’s with a quiet unease that Will follows him to the car. But soon, in the warmth of the Bentley’s passenger seat and accompanied by the soothing sounds of Bach’s  _ Cello Suites _ , Will feels himself start to drift. The houses speed by outside, scattered with snow and the remnants of Christmas lights still not taken down, and he closes his eyes just for a moment. 


End file.
